Chicago seasons try the soul. Snow barely melts before the temperature shoots towards ninety. Ray Bradbury’s “All Summer in a Day” haunted me from my first childhood reading and re-visits me each Chicago springtime. I know a long, sticky summer stretches before me, but I love the subtler pleasures of spring. Pastel buds pop awake in cool breezes and soft sunlight. Other embrace the full-fledged, flop-sweat of summertime. I prefer beaches before they open for the summer stampede. A friend makes fun of my preference for parkas over bikinis as my preferred beachwear. Today, the spring that started on Friday, spontaneously combusted into the upper eighties. That’s summer by my definition. My poor pansies, planted on Saturday, now look parched and plaintive in their pots. The collage above of last year’s spring pleasures decorated my work computer and held me through the winter that threatened to last until June. I offer it here as a wish that spring has not said goodbye before – like Bradbury’s trapped protagonist – I could go out and play.
